


Crown of Thorns

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Series: Based on Bible Verses [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Protective Winchesters (Supernatural), Tortured Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: And twisting together a crown of thorns,they put it on his head and put a reed in his right hand.And kneeling before him, they mocked him, saying,“Hail, King of the Jews!”—Matthew 27:29





	Crown of Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> Very special thanks to [Mal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses) for beating this so quickly and on such short notice! You da best.

_And twisting together a crown of thorns,_

_they put it on his head and put a reed in his right hand._

_And kneeling before him, they mocked him, saying,_

_“Hail, King of the Jews!”_

—Matthew 27:29

.

.

.

“He was definitely here,” Sam said, sighing.

 

“Yeah. _Was_. Doesn’t really help us now.”

 

“Dean,” Sam said in that patronizing tone that made Dean roll his eyes. “The blood’s fresh. He can’t have gotten far.” Sam toed at the dead angel; there was a hole in its chest, right center, and wing prints seared into the concrete ground. That wasn’t what Dean was concerned about. What had him worried was all the blood that stained the floor. Tacky and red, not more than a few hours old. And underneath it, layers of older blood. Days’ worth. Bile burned at the back of Dean’s throat as he thought about what kind of torture would elicit that amount of blood.

 

“He got away,” Sam said. “We can find him. Just. . . think like him for a moment.”

 

Dean couldn’t help the desperate cackle that ripped out his throat. “He doesn’t think, in case you hadn’t noticed! If he ever rubbed more than two brain cells together. . .” Dean couldn’t finish the sentence. He swallowed and rubbed at his face. Splitting up had been Cas’s idea. Dean hated it, but Sam sided with Cas, so split up they did.

 

Of course Cas would get captured by angels. Of fucking course. Dean sighed.

 

“What do we know?” Sam asked. Dean swallowed.

 

“He’s been missing for five days. He’s probably not sure where he is—we’re two states over from where we last were all together. He’s hurt. How badly, well. That would influence his next move. If he’s hurt badly, which,” Dean eyed all the blood, “looks like he is, he’d find shelter first. Somewhere to lay low while he heals. Somewhere he’d feel safe for a while.”

 

“Question is,” Sam said, “where would he feel safe?”

 

Dean thought and thought. This was a small town. Rather unremarkable. But every small town had one thing in common. Dean had an idea, and his stomach twisted into hot, tight knots and the implication. “I think I know.”

 

.

.

.

 

They had passed the church at least half a dozen times since they entered the town, hunting down their clues to Cas. It was modest, and in need of a paint job, but the cross could be seen from over a mile away. It was a beacon.

 

Night was a good cover for them. Dean had his gun holstered on his hip just in case, but this was a small town, and it was a Tuesday night. Sam had his lockpick out and ready to use, but it turned out he didn’t need it—the door was already unlocked. The door creaked as they opened it.

 

It was a modest church. A couple dozen pews pointed towards the altar, with a large crucifix pinned on the wall. It was horribly detailed; Jesus’s eyes were open, yet vacant, with red rivulets of blood dripping down his face.

 

“Cas?” Dean called quietly. “You in here?”

 

There was a bated moment. Then— “Dean?”

 

Dean turned to follow the voice and saw Cas crawling out from underneath a pew close to the altar.

 

Dean tried to keep his face impassive, but it was a hard battle. Cas’s face was badly bruised; his nose was crooked and his lip busted, and he had an arm wrapped around his midsection. There was so much blood.

 

Then Dean noticed the metal crown around Cas’s head. His heart skipped a beat and his blood froze inside his veins. There were at least eight spikes sticking out of Cas’s head, blood dripping down his face like little drops of rain.

 

Dean put his gun back in its holster and kneeled down on the ground.

 

“Hey,” Dean said, quietly, surveying all of Cas’s wounds. It was a futile attempt to try and quell his own panic. Sam was behind them—Dean heard him gasp. “How’re you doing, Cas?”

 

Cas breathed heavily. “I’ve been better,” he said, yet he smiled. There was blood in his teeth. Dean’s hand shook. He slowly raised it, tempted to put his palm against Cas’s cheek, but he couldn’t. The sight of that—that thing made his stomach do flips. Cas looked at him knowingly.

 

“You have to take it off,” he said, voice pained. “Once you get it off, I can heal everything else.”

 

“Those mother—” Dean started, then stopped, biting into his lip. “Why the hell did they do this?”

 

Cas shrugged. “They had questions. Don’t think they liked my answers very much though.” Cas coughed and blood dribbled down his chin.

 

“Okay,” Dean said, glancing back at Sam. Sam’s face was pale. “How. . .”

 

Cas looked at him, eyes clouded with pain and confusion. “You have to rip them out,” he said.

 

It took every ounce of self-control for Dean not to vomit. Sam knelt down beside them, whatever horror had once been on his face carefully schooled away. Sam’s face was calm. Dean was grateful for it.

 

“Okay, Cas, here—Dean, put your legs out.” Dean complied, even though he didn’t know what Sam was thinking. “Cas, lay down—” Oh.

 

Cas’s head rested in Dean’s lap now. Like this, Dean could feel every shaky breath Cas took; they were wispy, and Dean knew he must’ve had cracked ribs on top of everything else. He took Cas’s hand in his own. Sam swallowed and wrapped one hand around one of the spikes.

 

“Okay, Cas. On three. One—” Sam ripped the spike out and Cas’s back arched, teeth gnashed together painfully. There was a high-pitched ringing noise in Dean’s ear, and the crucifix on the wall vibrated.

 

Castiel opened his eyes slowly; unfocused, they were directed at Sam. “That wasn’t three,” he said, betrayed.

 

“Sorry,” Sam said. He at least had the decency to look guilty.

 

“Not gonna get away with that again,” Dean said, grimacing. Cas was squeezing his hand _hard_. He was hurt, but he was still strong, and Dean felt his hand starting to bruise.

 

“I know,” Sam said. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

 

Cas swallowed and nodded. “Please. Just get them out.”

 

Dean and Sam shared a look. Blood trickled out of the now open wound, sluicing down to the tip of Cas’s nose. Sam inhaled slowly.

 

Sam pulled out the second spike just as efficiently, but Dean could tell it wasn’t as easy as he was making it look. Sam was starting to sweat, muscles tense. The ringing sound returned—higher than it had been last time. Cas was trying so hard to hold back his true voice; for it to be slipping out, even a little, proved how much pain he actually was in.

 

Dean knew it was for the best. He knew they had to do this; it was for Cas’s benefit. Sometimes you had to hurt someone to save them.

 

That didn’t make him feel any less guilty for the cries Cas made, for all the blood seeping out of now open wounds, pulsing with every heartbeat. Cas squeezed his hand again and Dean gnashed his teeth together, trying to hold back his own cries of pain.

 

Spikes three and four started to slow down. Sam was struggling. The spikes were getting deeper into Cas’s skull, costing more energy and time for Sam to pull them out. The floor underneath them shook, like a mini earthquake—but they were in Kansas. The large crucifix shook even harder, slamming against the wall, and the temperature dropped noticeably in the room.

 

Tears were starting to mix in with all the blood. Cas’s chest was heaving. Dean very carefully avoided looking at the wounds, afraid of what he would see. Logically, he knew what would be there—bone and tissue and brain—but he fought those urges and kept his eyes locked on Cas’s. He rubbed Cas’s hand with his aching fingers, wincing when Cas squeezed again. Sam was panting when he grabbed onto spike five, located just behind Cas’s left ear.

 

“Do you need a break, Cas?” Sam asked, licking his lips. Cas screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. “You sure? We can give it a little bit. Till you’re ready.”

 

“Please. Just get them _out_.”

 

Sam looked down at Cas. Then he leaned forward, towards Dean. “It’s only going to hurt worse from here,” he whispered. Dean nodded solemnly. He used his free hand and pinned Cas’s shoulder down as Sam ripped spike number five out.

 

The lights above them buzzed and flickered, on and off, on and off, and the temperature dropped even further. Goosebumps marred Dean’s skin, even with his jacket. This time he was sure Cas had managed to fracture his fingers, and he hoped his own cry of pain was drowned out by all the other commotion.

 

Spike six was located right at the back of Cas’s head. That one, thankfully, came out easily, slick with blood. Dean accidentally caught sight of it and he forced himself to swallow down the vomit that crept up his esophagus.

 

“You’re doing great, Cas,” Dean said, wincing at how stupid it sounded. “We’re almost done.”  Dean looked over Cas at the giant hanging crucifix, and suddenly he felt very small; those large, vacant eyes seemed to be staring straight into him, and Dean couldn’t help but think it was eerily similar to how Cas looked at him sometimes.  Like right now.

 

Even in as much pain as Cas was in, he still stared right at Dean; like Dean was his center. It took Dean a minute to realize he was singing _Hey, Jude_ , but he couldn’t stop, despite the embarrassed flush that took to his cheeks. Cas’s eyes were half-lidded, fuzzy with agony and blood, but they were still focused right on Dean. Dean used his good hand to run his fingers through Cas’s hair and he kept singing. Cas squeezed his hand again, though his grip was much weaker than it had been previously. Dean’s fractured fingers were grateful, but he still worried.

 

Sam’s face was, in contrast, flushed with exertion. His brows were pinched in concentration. Fingers flexing, he grabbed spike seven and _yanked_ it out. The light bulbs above them shattered; little pieces of glass raining down on them. Dean leaned forward and tried to cover Cas from the onslaught.

 

“One more,” Dean whispered against Cas’s ear. “One more, you can do it.”

 

Sam did not hesitate. He pulled.

 

The large crucifix fell off the wall and broke when it hit the ground. Jesus’s head rolled towards Dean. He stared at the face for a moment before shoving it away.

 

Cas’s face was streaked in blood; crooked, red rivulets from his scalp all the way down to his neck. But he was visibly relaxed, panting. Sam pulled the metal crown off Cas’s head and threw it across the room. It smacked a pew and chipped off a piece before clattering against the ground.

 

“Cas?” Dean asked. Cas turned his head towards Dean’s voice. Cas squeezed his hand again and Dean hissed. The pain returned to Cas’s eyes.

 

“I hurt you,” he said, looking at where their hands were intertwined.

 

“It’s fine,” Dean said. But Cas’s other hand was already reaching up, and his fingers brushed against Dean’s forehead. Dean felt the familiar cold run through his blood, and then the pain in his hand disappeared. Dean scoffed. “You idiot. Heal yourself first.”

 

“Working on it,” Cas muttered, and Dean had never been so glad to hear Cas’s usual snarkiness. True to his word, the blue light started to glow around Cas’s wounds. The tension visibly exited Cas. He relaxed and closed his eyes and the blue light continued. He went into one of his trance-like sleeps.

 

Sam coughed. “I never want to do that again,” he said, wiping his mouth.

 

Dean looked at all the spikes; each coated almost entirely in blood. Dean swallowed and carefully wiped at the blood on Cas’s face.

 

“What do we do now?” Sam asked.

 

“Let him rest,” Dean said, continuing to clean Cas’s face. He avoided getting close to the wounds near Cas’s head, and just erased the dark trails of blood.

 

Later, they’d have to figure out how to dispose of the spikes and the crown; there was nothing they could do about the mess of the lights and the broken crucifix. Dean wasn’t worried about that. Right now, he was content just to watch Cas sleep and heal, and to put this whole ordeal behind them.

 

Sam had a similar idea. He laid down on the floor, head pillowed on his arms. Poor kid, Dean thought. But he was glad Sam had been able to stomach all the hard work. He didn’t think he could’ve handled hurting Cas like that.

 

The quiet settled and Dean continued to clean the blood off Cas’s face.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com)! I love talking with y'all over there. Comments are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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